Shadow of the Overlord

Contents TIMELINE OF EVENTS PRONUNCIATION GUIDE GLOSSARY DRAGOON HIERARCHY/ORGANIZATION MONETARY SYSTEM/VALUES KNOWN PANTHEON THE PURGE BOOK ONE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER tHIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER FORTY-SIX CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHAPTER FIFTY CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE BOOK TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE CHAPTER SIXTY CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE CHAPTER SEVENTY CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE CHAPTER EIGHTY CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE BOOK III CHAPTER NINETY CHAPTER NINETY-ONE CHAPTER NINETY-TWO CHAPTER NINETY-THREE CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE CHAPTER NINETY-SIX CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT CHAPTER NINETY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-ELEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWELVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTEEN BOOK IV CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FOURTEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-EIGHTEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-NINETEEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FORTY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-FIFTY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SIXTY-NINE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-ONE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-TWO CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-THREE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-FOUR CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-FIVE CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER ONE-HUNDRED-SEVENTY-NINE EPILOGUE THANKS FOR READING Connect OTHER BOOKS ABOUT THE AUTHORTHE CALAMITY VOLUME ONESHADOW OF THE OVERLORDTHE PURGE Sindor’s blood surged. Only with effort did she force herself not to rush through the tunnel to her dam’s chamber. It isn’t every day a dragon gets to kill their own mother, Novarel’s voice spoke within her mind. You should savor it. Don’t rush it. You’ll want to remember this moment. The word is dam! Sindor snapped across their telepathic link. Dragons do not have ‘mothers.’ Of course. My apologies. Even more than his using the human words, she hated being connected to the human in this way. Why did he have to be inside her head, exactly? In spite of him, however, she smiled. She’d been looking forward to this day for a long time and intended to savor the moment. She reached within herself to the glowing purple gem of power, the seat of the arcane, The Apex of The Soul. She pulled forth a few strands of arcane power and wrapped her paws in silence. There was no sense in waking her dam prematurely. Or ever, she added with a silent chuckle. In utter silence, she passed her clutch-mate’s chamber. It was meet that he sleep through the Grand Plan. He didn’t have the stomach for such work. Quillliaurran, you weakling, she thought with a sneer. She prayed that, Tiamat willing, she could beat that tender heart out of him one day. It would do him no favors. They did not live in a gentle world, nor did they serve a gentle master. Brutality was needed, not only to thrive but to even survive. A dozen wingspans deeper into the cave, she reached the entrance to her dam’s cavern. This deep there was no natural light, but such was not an impediment to her vision. She was a dragon, not some weakling torthugra like her dam. They had to have torches or other sources of light to see through the darkness. She stopped, her claws rooted to the stone. Never before had she troubled to question it, but she did so now. How was it that she was a true dragon with only one dragon parent? Sire had assured her, and all his other broods, for that matter, that they were, in fact, pureblood dragons. But how could that be? Was it truly possible the torthugra blood somehow did not weaken or dilute the draconic? Did the torthugra side submit, on a cellular level, to the inherent superiority of her dragon blood? She made a mental note to ask the Overlord and filed it away for later use. Stepping forward once more, she entered her dam’s small chamber. With another small stream of power, she covered the entrance in a field of silence, then turned back to the sleeping form of her dam. Her long, slender tongue slipped from her mouth to lick her lips. She was determined to enjoy this as long as possible. She crept to the back of the chamber and stood over the slender serpentine form with its soft scales and feathered wings. So unlike her own wings, which were thin and membranous, yet powerful. How could a creature of such majesty, strength, and power come from the body of one so fraught with weakness? At almost double her dam’s length, she was still not a large dragon. Far from it. Her sire utterly dwarfed her. He had spinal spikes larger than she was. Sindor shook her head. She would grow. Given enough time, she would grow into a suitable match for her sire. One day. Snaking her head down to the base of her dam’s tail, she opened her jaws, slimy saliva dripping to puddle on the stone near her claws. “Do you hate me so much?” whispered a breathless voice. Sindor froze. How had she misjudged so completely? “Sindorriaunna?” With a silent snarl, she raised her head. She hated her full name. It sounded so… feminine. While Sindor, on the other hand, sounded powerful, destructive, and strong. “I do not hate you, dam. I pity you.” “Pity? Me?” “For the weakness of your flesh. The powerlessness of your soul.” Her dam gave a slow nod. “I see. So this is… for my own benefit?” Sindor laughed. “Hardly. It is commanded. No more, no less.” “You were commanded to chew my body to pulp from the bottom up? You were commanded to make my death the most terrible, most horrifying, most drawn out session of t*****e you can imagine?” How in the name of the Overlord was she so calm? She obviously knew what was about to happen. How could she face it without the slightest tremor in her voice? Sindor sighed. When she spoke, it came out as a snarl. “No, not that part. That is of my own choosing. But your death, and those of all your kind, comes now. Tonight. All across the isle. The torthugra’s wings bunched upward then fell again. It was as close to a shrug as the legless creatures were capable of. “I expected no less. Now that there are enough of you reaching maturity, he has no more need of us.” Sindor narrowed her eyes. “You expected this? Then why stay? Why remain here and allow yourself to be made a victim? Why not flee to the mainland?” “To be slaughtered by dragoons? No thank you. Besides, it was worth it to watch my children grow. Even though Quillliaurran has not yet achieved his wings, it was still a pleasure to watch you grow into the beauty you have become.” Sindor growled. “Of all the nonsensical prattle–” “Enough, daughter. You have come here to do a thing. Get on with it.” With a snarl, Sindor darted forward and bit into the center of her dam’s body, cleanly severing muscles, sinew, and bone. To Sindor’s astonishment, the serpent made not a sound. Not of protest and not of pain. Nothing. She did not shrink away, nor did she so much as twitch. Perhaps I have misjudged her, Sindor thought. She pushed the thought away. Whether her dam was as weak as she had always believed was irrelevant. The Overlord had commanded the deaths of all the torthugra, so she would comply. No one who wished to live disobeyed the immense wyrm. She set to devouring her dam one bite at a time while the still-living upper half of the body endured, spurting blood from the severed mid-section of her belly.FROM HIS MIND’S eye, the Overlord watched with immense satisfaction as his children destroyed their dams, one and all. Not all did so with the malice or gusto of Sindorriaunna, but this was much of why she was one of his favorites. If she maintained her focus and learned to rein in her brutality, she would rise high and fast. He smiled to himself. His plans had been a long time in the making, but he still recalled with not a little discomfort his years alone in the Void. Even worse, the hundreds of failures he had suffered before learning to harness his energies in the proper manner to produce true dragon children from the bodies of the small serpents. No matter, he thought. What is done is done. It is time to look to the future. He watched the hatchlings destroy the last of the torthugra with a toothy smile. “At last,” he said, his voice rumbling with such power the cavern walls trembled. “The old order is washed away, to make room to build up the new one, eh… what are you calling yourself these days?” “Novarel, Divinity,” the tiny human said in his weak voice. The Overlord snorted. “Not very inventive, is it?” The man bowed. “I never was overly creative, Divinity.” The Overlord snorted again, a jet of orange flame erupting from one nostril. This human was far less amusing than he thought he was, but at least he didn’t quail before the Overlord’s gaze. Such confidence was worth its weight in diamonds. It was so exhausting to have his every subject tremble in terror before him. “He isn’t ready yet, surely it will be another century or more, but how would you feel about bonding with young Quillliaurran when the time comes?” The human rubbed his jaw. “The whelp? The one with the oh-so-destructive sister?” The Overlord snorted. He disliked using the old words for such familial connections. He nodded his great head. “I would be honored, Divinity. But why lavish your attentions on him?” The Overlord shrugged. “I find I have an affinity for the runts and the powerless.”book ITHE GAUNTLETCHAPTER ONE THE WIND KEENED, high and sharp, through the leaves of the few trees to either side of the path which led from the smattering of farms into Cuularan. Though early in the day still, it had been nearly two full turns of the glass since the orbs of the dual fire gods had risen over the towering Spine of the World Mountains in the west. Kaustere, the crimson orb, sat slightly above his black cousin, Asmodere, leaving only a sliver of black crescent visible, trailing after the red. Both served to bake the ground hard. Taliesimon wondered idly if one could fry an egg on a rock in the heat of those twin orbs. The floorboards beneath her creaked as the flat bed of the wain leaned to one side on the uneven path, then jounced to the other without warning. She fell, cracking her knee against the sturdy, if weathered, oak. “Blast it,” she muttered, massaging her knee. “That’s going to bruise.” “Maybe that will teach you not to stand in the back of a moving wain,” Father said gruffly, without turning back to face her. He meant well, of course. She knew that. But he didn’t understand. He could never understand. She couldn’t sit. She couldn’t be patient. Not on a day like today. Today, she was too excited to keep calm or hold still. Today is The Day, she thought. You’re content to be a farmer, Father, but not me. Oh no! Not me! I’m going to be a warrior, see if I don’t! “Don’t know what you’re so excited about,” Jalaisen said. “They only agreed to let you test to shut you up. They don’t let girls into the Dragoons.” Her temper flared, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You take that back!” she shouted. “I will not,” he said, unperturbed. “Take it back, Jay!” she yelled, pitching her voice even higher, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides. Somehow, she wasn’t sure how, exactly, she had gotten back to her feet. She glared at her older brother through a haze of crimson. She would make him take back his stupid words. She would be a dragoon. He glared right back, arms folded. “I will not. It is truth. You shall see.” Taliesimon thrust her small fists against her hips. “I will be a dragoon, Jay. You’ll see. I don’t care if they’ve never accepted a girl before. I’ll be the first.” Jalaisen scoffed. “We’ll see, little sister.” She clenched her teeth in frustration. I’ll show them all, she thought. They’ll see. “Don’t pout, little one,” Father said. She ground her teeth. “I’m not.” She hated when that whiny note crept into her voice. Father shook his head. “Are you certain you wish to do this, Taly?” “Yep.” Father sighed again. “Jalaisen, stop antagonizing your sister. She’s made her choice. She’ll stand or fall by merit of her own skills. Nothing you can say or do will change it.” “Yes, Father.” Jalaisen turned his attention back to the road and took a few jogging steps to pull up even with Father, who sat on the bench at the front of the old wain. Taliesimon did her best to push her outrage to the back of her mind. That was pride in his voice, talking about my skills, wasn’t it? She smiled. The wain jounced again, leaning wildly to one side as the wheel fell into a rut in the path. This time, Taliesimon slid her feet with the motion and managed to stay standing. Her grin broadened. Cuularan was large. Easily the biggest place Taliesimon had ever seen. Like most of the Free States, Cuularan had no fence, no walls, and no gate. The forest had been cleared for a full league around the outbuildings— to aid in defense, she supposed —and a three-span-wide stream cut through the center of town. Arching her back and neck, Taliesimon counted as many of the brick, stucco, wood, and stone buildings as she could. Since the last time Father had brought them into the city two years ago, she had discovered— with almost unseemly delight —that she could count beyond ten by using her fingers multiple times. All she had to do was use a raised finger to denote each repetition of ten. She used the trick now, and added raised toes within her soft doeskin boots when she ran out of fingers. At two-hundred she stopped, being out of tricks to help her count higher, and marveled. These were only the buildings she could see from the outskirts, which was obviously only a small part of the total within. Never mind that there were many more that she didn’t have an accurate way to count! Woodcutters chopping firewood; mills, where millers did whatever it was millers did, she wasn’t certain; storefronts where goods of all descriptions were bought and sold; inns for the weary; taverns for the thirsty; guard towers, manned primarily by dragoons on the lookout for torthugra; gem cutters who made jewelry; tanners, she was pretty sure they made leather; shaperates, who carved bone into useful shapes, primarily weapons and armors; coopers making barrels; wainwrights building wains and carts; this place had absolutely everything! Why had she never noticed all this before? The last time she was here, none of it had been important. The food, specifically the pastries, and the toys available here that couldn’t be had in her home village had been all that occupied her attention. But now she marveled at everything! “Papa, where do you think the testing grounds will be this year?” “Same as always.” She chewed her lip nervously. “Don’t worry, Taly,” Father said without looking back at her. “I’ll get you there. As soon as we unload these wine casks at the Birdsong Inn, we’ll head that way.” She nodded. It seemed silly, nodding when his back was to her. But she knew that somehow he knew she’d nodded. Father always knew. A part of her suspected he knew everything. Ahead, the road leveled out and widened enough to accommodate three wains side-by-side. Why don’t they keep the ruts out on the whole road? she wondered. Surely that would make the trip into town far more pleasant for everyone. Without warning, the wain’s wheels hit… something. Something hard and unyielding. The wain rose in a high bounce and Taliesimon pitched forward. The back of Papa’s bench flew up toward her with sickening speed and met her face in a bright flash of white, followed by darkness. Strangely, rather than the pain she expected, her face blossomed with a burst of numbness. The world spun around her, even with her eyes closed. How does that work? she wondered. Trying to ignore the spinning, she opened her eyes and focused her attention on her hands, which seemed to be planted flat on the floor of the wain. She noticed the whorls and grain lines in the wood as she never had before. She tried to smell the old oak, it was a scent she had always loved, yet the wood smell didn’t reach her nose. The only scent reaching her nose was something she couldn’t place. Something bitter and acrid with an unusual tang to it. Her cheeks felt wet. With tremendous effort, she rolled over and her head slammed against the floor of the wain. Pain exploded in her skull. Blinking rapidly, she looked up into the bright midday sky. The azure was broken by puffy clouds and the twin orbs above. Her eyes burned and flooded with moisture. Father’s face broke her view of crimson Kaustere on one side and Jalaisen’s did so on the other. The burning in her eyes eased a bit. Concern showed in their eyes, but though their lips moved, no sound penetrated the high, sharp ringing in her ears. Why hadn’t she noticed the sound before? Did I black out? she wondered. She didn’t know how to tell if she had or not. She hadn’t dreamed. She hadn’t seen blackness overshadow her sight. She remembered her fall and even the impact— she winced at the memory. It was similar to the sudden numbness of being struck with a shield or the flat of a wooden blade. Initially, the numbness had been isolated to her nose and mouth, but now it seemed like her entire face was numb. She reached up to feel her cheeks, chin and nose. Her fingers touched wetness and cold flesh— was her nose crooked now? —but it was as though she were touching someone else’s face. The flesh had no sensation at all. She couldn’t help thinking it was a bad sign. Father and Jalaisen looked worried, their expressions drawn. “Father,” she tried to say. She couldn’t hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears though, and was not at all certain she was actually speaking. “I can’t hear you. But I think I’m okay. My face feels numb.” CHAPTER TWO SEVERAL DAYS’ RIDE north of Cuularan was Moritz, the ancient, bustling capital city at the heart of the Free States. In an open training yard near the center of the stone edifice that passed for a keep, Prince Dargon, only son of King Duncan, trained with the royal Master-at-Arms. “Hold it steady, Prince Dargon,” Jorimund said. “You hold it b****y steady,” Dargon snapped under his breath. Who needs a bow, anyway? “My lord, you cannot hold the bow steady while you breathe, especially when breathing so rapidly. Release the string.” Dargon let the bow go slack. “Now, follow the steps. Breathe in as you draw back, hold your breath while you hold the string to your cheek. Take one second to aim, and release.” Dargon nodded glumly, but did as instructed. In a single motion, he sucked in a breath and drew the arrow to his cheek where he aimed and let his fingers go slack to allow the arrow to launch into his target. That was the idea, at least. His arrow didn’t come within six spans of the straw man that was his target. “Better, my lord. Better.” Dargon scoffed. “If missing the broad side of a barn is better.” “It is. You cannot hit if you do not fire. And you cannot improve your aim if you do not practice.” He nodded, conceding the point. “Give me a sword and I’ll hack your arm off, but I’m wasted on the bow.” “Not true, my prince. You are a quicker study with the sword, that much is true. You simply need more practice with the bow. Remember the–” “I know, I know. Remember the steps. String the bow, nock an arrow, draw with an indrawn breath. Hold the breath while aiming and do not breathe out again until after loosing the arrow.” “I have never doubted your memory,” Jorimund said. “Your wit is sharper than any sword.” Dargon felt certain there was a certain backhandedness to that compliment somewhere, but he couldn’t help beaming at the praise. “Again,” Jorimund barked. Dargon dutifully obeyed. He loosed arrow after arrow after arrow. Within a few shots, he began hitting the straw target, though even by the end of his practice he rarely struck precisely where he intended. By the time the old Master-at-Arms let him stop, the blisters on his fingers had popped, regrown, popped again, and regrown to the size of grapes. His arm ached so badly he could scarcely move it. I suppose this is what Father meant when he instructed Jori to work me ‘to the bone.’ With a sigh, he slowly unstrung the bow with his left hand to avoid doing further harm to the blistered fingers of his right, and put both back in the small shed that served as the small training yard’s armory. The rough oaken boards that passed for walls were splintered and beginning to molder. The inside of the shed stretched perhaps a span and a half and the inner walls were lined with four common bone swords and one supposedly of black torthugra-bone, though Dargon had his doubts about the legitimacy of the claim. There were a dozen wood-and-bone axes, each matched with a shield, and the remaining wall was hung with unstrung bows of ash, elm, and horn, with two crafted from the incredibly strong and surprisingly supple diamondwood. In the middle space of the shed stood four oak dummies from which hung a suit of banded torthugra-bone armor, a massive suit of plates supposedly made from teranthric bone, a basic breastplate of oak, and another of diamondwood complete with greaves, epaulets, and coif. Dargon hung his bow on its peg and wrapped the string around its length. Turning from the shed, he closed its heavy door and dropped the bar in place, clasping the thick, wooden padlock in its place to secure the bar. Why do we bother with locking it? he thought, annoyed. It is not as though there’s actually anything of value in there. We don’t have enough weapons to quell a peasant uprising, much less any real threat. “Go and get that hand looked at,” Jori said. Dargon nodded and, as though the Master-at-Arms’ words had caused it, his hand began to throb. Something wet dripped down his palm. He tried to clench his fist, but the fingers wouldn’t curl past the shape of a sickle. Determined not to look at it, he spun on his heel and marched toward the door. Within moments, he was out of the hot sun and back into the cool shadows of the stone keep. The granite floors were smooth, if bare, but the stone of the walls had numerous cracks and were chipped almost everywhere. At seemingly random intervals, framed canvas paintings hung from the walls. Dargon couldn’t help wondering why they bothered with decorations when the keep was in such a constant state of disrepair. His feet followed the four turns and countless stone steps seemingly without his direction, leading him up into the central tower and into the Trevan’s office. His sturdy diamondwood door stood wide open, as it usually did during the day. Leather-bound books lined the walls and a long marble counter at the back of the room held glass jars of pulpy, meaty things better left uninvestigated. Or so the Trevan always told him. Even now, with blood dripping from his throbbing hand, however, he wanted nothing more than to go back and explore the grotesquery. He pulled his attention to the front of the chamber where the Trevan himself sat. He was a well-muscled, if slender, thickly-bearded man in midnight blue robes with kind, glittering gray eyes. Quill in hand, the Trevan wrote ceaselessly in a large, green, leather-bound tome. The bright red desk was of a stone Dargon didn’t recognize, its surface textured with bumps almost half the size of cobblestones. The Trevan had once claimed the desk was carved from stone pulled from the eastern ocean, though Dargon didn’t see how that was possible. The thing was massive, surely— even now, in its carven state —it had to weigh close to half a ton. What would the original chunk of material have been? Ten tons? A hundred? Dargon waited, though with the ache in his hand rapidly working toward a raging inferno his patience waned quickly. After a minute, the crimson light of Kaustere reflecting off the eastern sea as it sank toward its home there caused the stone of the Trevan’s desk to blaze scarlet and the youngish man lifted his quill to dip it into the inkwell. Dargon cleared his throat softly. Face still turned down toward his page, the Trevan glanced up at Dargon with arched brows. “Yes, my lord?” Dargon raised his arm and brandished his b****y hand as though it were a flaming torch. Tiny crimson droplets spattered half the desk, one or two of them soaking into the page of the Trevan’s open book. The Trevan’s flinty eyes narrowed for an instant, then went wide as he seemed to notice Dargon’s hand. “Come and sit, boy,” he said softly, patting the seat of a chair next to his. Dargon didn’t think the chair had been there a moment ago, but with the pain in his hand dulling his mind, he didn’t fully trust his senses. After a moment of confused hesitation, he stepped around the desk and eased himself down into the carved mahogany chair, careful not to jar his still-bleeding hand. The seat proved much more comfortable than it looked. The Trevan pulled a bowl of carved bone from beneath his desk and gently eased Dargon’s hand into it. The healer then pulled a stone pitcher, full of clear water, from the same place and sat it on the desk. “How did this happen?” “Training.” Dargon’s voice was tight. “Jorimund?” Dargon grimaced. “I thought so. I am going to have words with him over this,” the Trevan growled through clenched teeth. “No!” Dargon snaked his left hand around to grip the Trevan’s arm as hard as he could. “Promise me you will not!” The Trevan stared at him a moment, then nodded. “Okay, Dargon. Calm down.” He pried Dargon’s fingers from his arm. “We need to take care of this hand.” Dargon nodded and looked down at his ravaged fingers for the first time since training had ended. His stomach surged and he fought his body, forcing the bile back down his throat. He couldn’t see much through the blood, which covered his palm and fingers. He didn’t have names for the shapes of the popped blisters covering the top two segments of each of his fingers. Thick, congealing fluid of sickly yellow mixed with the blood at the tips of his fingers. How is this so bad? All I was doing is firing arrows, he thought in confusion. The world swam, spinning around him, and the edges of his vision began to darken. “Well, this looks a lot worse than it really is,” the Trevan said brightly. Dargon blinked and his vision cleared. Looking down at his hand again, he squinted. “Are you certain?” The Trevan smiled and pulled a folded piece of parchment from his robe. He carefully unfolded it to reveal its powdery contents and dumped them into the stone pitcher. The water foamed at the top and turned dark blue. He lifted the pitcher, his hand high on its handle, and whispered under his breath as he poured the blue water over Dargon’s hand. Dargon couldn’t hear the words, but guessed at what they were. Every Trevan was, first and foremost, a priest of Trevandor. So naturally, his words would be a prayer to the god. Some even said the Trevan Royal was one of the rare few priests with true healing powers, but Dargon had never seen any proof of it. From the moment the blue liquid touched his hand, the pain receded. The fluid seemed to glow slightly, but it could have been a trick of the dwindling light of Kaustere. As the blood and pus were washed away, Dargon was astounded to find that the Trevan was largely correct. A laceration near the base of one finger bled freely and the remains of several blisters covered the pads of his fingers, but there was little else. I would swear there had been more than that, he thought. The Trevan pulled a silk washcloth from his robe and soaked it in the blue— now purple —liquid, then gently wiped the remaining grime from Dargon’s skin. “You see?” the Trevan asked. “Just get this bleeding stopped and apply a salve for the blisters and you should be as good as new by morning.” “So I see,” Dargon said in wonder, though he could hardly believe it. From the fire of agony in his fingers, he’d been certain the flesh must have been shredded to the bone. The Trevan held a linen strip to the open cut while patting the rest of the hand dry with another silken cloth. Once it was dry, he wrapped another strip of linen about the cut finger and tied it, then put a paste from a jar hidden on one of the bookshelves onto several smaller strips and tied them onto the pads of Dargon’s fingers. Smiling, the Trevan pushed aside the pitcher and bowl and eyed his handiwork. “How does it feel?” “Good,” Dargon said, a bit suspicious now. He peered deep into the healer’s shining eyes for several moments. “Trevan, what was that light in the solution you poured on my hand?” The Trevan’s eyes widened slightly. “Light? What light? I can only guess you must have been seeing a refraction of the light of Kaustere.” “I am not so sure. Are you certain it is nothing you did?” “Of course,” he said with a laugh just a bit higher pitched than usual. “What could I have done?” “Well, you are a priest, after all.” The Trevan laughed again and this time it was genuine and mirthful. “Few priests, of any god, are granted real power, my lord. Most of those to claim such power are sorcerers or charlatans.” “But they say you are one who does have real power,” he blurted, shocked with how direct he was being. “They?” the Trevan asked mildly. Dargon gave a slight shrug. “Just people. I hear things.” He smiled sheepishly. The Trevan narrowed his eyes. “And why would you trust these people?” His sheepish smile grew into something more mischievous. “Because they weren’t talking to me. So, is it true?” “Not only is that presumptuous, my lord, but that question is a rather rude one. Priests, even those who truly do have miraculous gifts, do not flaunt such things.” “And yet, you’ve done so enough for people to talk about it,” Dargon said with a grin. He noted silently that the Trevan did not deny having such abilities.CHAPTER THREE TALIESIMON STOOD PROUD, the only girl in a long line of boys, at the start line of a course of obstacles meant to test the mettle of those who wished to join the honorable order of the dragoons. The boy to her left, like many others, had a shaved head and wore nothing aside from his torn and filthy breeches. The boy to her right, however, wore his short, blond hair combed back and his pristine linen clothing and fine doeskin boots smelled like money. The boy on the blond boy’s other side shied away from him, as though he had a contagious disease. He was shunned by them as much as she was, it seemed. “Ready?” a tall dragoon called from the front, but several voices growling from behind her brought everyone’s attention around to the back of the line. A bald-headed, shirtless boy in soft, black leather breeches and sandaled feet strode toward the line while three older boys, initiates, Taliesimon felt certain, chased after him. Hold on, she thought. Is that a… another girl? The shirtless youth had narrow, angular features but thick, full lips and just the slightest swelling of her chest. The earliest beginnings of breasts, perhaps? If so, she lacked any degree of modesty or sense of decorum. The child hurried to the line and sidled in between Taliesimon and the bare-headed boy to her left. “Dragoons!” the middle chaser, the oldest, called. “That girl cannot be allowed to test. It is against all–” “It is against nothing,” the dragoon in front barked. “It is unorthodox, to be sure, but young Taliesimon here had prior approval to compete. Allowing another girl in will change nothing.” “But ser! We have never–” “It matters not, initiate. Just because there has never been a female dragoon does not mean there cannot be. We will allow them to compete.” The three initiates frowned and Taliesimon grinned. Glancing at the new arrival, she found the bald girl grinning as well. “Way to make an entrance,” she said, impressed. “Thanks,” the girl said as she ran a hand over her smooth head, looking almost shy. Taliesimon extended a hand. “I’m Taliesimon.” The girl touched a palm to hers and said, “Okara,” and they both grinned again. “Ready positions!” The dragoon barked and Taliesimon spun to face forward, her right leg forward, knee bent, and the left one stretched out behind her. “Do you know what’s ahead?” Okara asked softly. Taliesimon gaped. “You haven’t studied the course?” The smaller girl shrugged. She’s going to die, Taliesimon thought. They’re going to eat her alive. From the small cart at his side, the dragoon ahead of them produced a tall staff of ash with a long, wide banner depicting a black longsword protruding from a brown serpent’s fanged head on a field of pristine white. He waved the banner back and forth above his head three times while the lines of dragoons on either side of the narrow path chanted, “From the fires of youth, dragoons will rise. Only the strong will overcome.” They repeated the phrase with each wave of the banner. “Be careful,” Taliesimon whispered urgently. “Keep your eyes open. Don’t get in their way.” “In their way?” The girl was incredulous. “The boys will hurt you. It’s all competition to them. They don’t care who they hurt to get ahead.” The girl’s eyes widened for a moment, then her expression went blank, her eyes hardened, and she nodded. After the fourth wave of the banner and the fourth repetition of the chant, the lead dragoon stabbed the staff into the muddy ground and barked, “Begin!” Pandemonium erupted around Taliesimon as the boys ripped and tore at one another’s hair and clothing, throwing opponents to the muddy ground. The boy to Taliesimon’s right was pulled down by his finely groomed blond hair and trampled. Blood poured from his mouth. Taliesimon waited at the line drawn into the mud before her, gripping the smaller girl’s bare arm. For a moment, Okara struggled against her, trying to run forward, then she seemed to notice the violence being bandied about and relaxed in Taliesimon’s grip. All the boys with bare chests and shaved heads made a lot more sense now. She’d known the start especially would not be pleasant, but she hadn’t fully expected the amount of hair and shirt pulling and the violent trampling that had occurred. But, if Okara didn’t expect this, why is she– Wrenching pain in the back of her head cut off the thought and she was flung forward. The muddy ground flew up toward her face. She clenched her eyes tight as her face struck home for the second time today. Once again, even through her closed eyes, the world seemed to spin around her. A laugh sounded above her, though it seemed far away and indistinct. Footsteps pounded past her and the laughter, vicious and mocking, dissipated. With her mouth full of thick fluid, Taliesimon choked and coughed, but the fluid remained. She tried to roll herself over, but her body did not respond. Holy Trevandor, she thought. Please don’t let me die here! Why won’t my body cooperate? Then a small hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her over. The crimson light of Kaustere burned through her eyelids and she coughed again. This time, the fluid vacated her mouth and she sucked in a gasping, labored breath. Though the breath burned all the way down, it felt sweet and refreshing. As she drew in her third breath, she opened her eyes and found her lids sticky with thick crimson blood. She lay dazed for several moments before she tried to move again. Okara’s hairless head appeared above her, eyes wide and mouth agape. Her eyes are beautiful, Taliesimon thought, and accepted the thought as the dazed nonsense it was. They shine like sapphires in the light, but brighter, so much brighter. The wide sapphire eyes blinked and Taliesimon blinked as well. “Are you okay?” the girl asked. She coughed again, then turned her head and spit a build-up of fluid from her mouth. She tasted blood and finally made sense of the situation. With a slight nod to the smaller girl, she struggled to sit up. After a moment, the other girl gripped her hands and pulled her up to a sitting position. “We have to move,” she croaked. Okara nodded and pulled Taliesimon to her feet. “They did that purely out of spite, didn’t they?” “I expect so,” Taliesimon rasped as she took her first wobbly steps toward the lead dragoon ahead. He now stood a pace off the path, just before it curved into the dark woods. Though her knee still ached from hitting the wain, she refused to allow it to slow her. With Okara at her side, she pushed her steps into a jog and then a full run. Dimly, she wondered if there was going to be permanent damage to her face from the repeated strikes today. With a shake of her head, she forced the thought away. It was not important. Catching up with the boys and fighting her way into the Dragoon Order was important. The Dragoon just off the path offered her a nod and a grim smile as she dashed past him with Okara in tow. “Our advantage,” Taliesimon gasped as she ran. “Is that we have nowhere to go but up.” “And now we’re the ones,” Okara added, not sounding the least bit winded. “Who can c***k skulls from behind. They’ll never see us coming.” Taliesimon nodded, but kept silent. Already out of breath, the less of it she wasted, the better off she would be. And I’m not sure how to respond to her viciousness, she added silently. Turning the bend into the woods, Taliesimon grunted. “Faster, Okara. Jump soon.” Without a sound, the small girl ran faster. Within moments, she came up even with Taliesimon then seemed to force herself to slow, as though she were unwilling to move farther ahead. “Sharpened. Stakes. In. Pit,” she gasped and Okara nodded. Ahead, a tall, muscular boy ran. The muscles of his back rippled with every movement and his freshly shaven head was marred by numerous razor cuts. Either he did it himself, or his father’s face must look like a t*****e victim, she thought in sympathy. It had to be terribly painful. “I’d wager that’s the snake who hit you,” Okara growled. Taliesimon wanted to smack herself. Of course he was! He must have had the same idea she did, wait for the others to b****y each other, then jump ahead of them all. But that idea had clearly been a spectacular failure. Somehow, they were still the last three in the course. How did this happen? she wondered. Surely, at least some of them had to be bloodied worse than me. She couldn’t argue with the reality, however. There hadn’t been a single beaten or bloodied boy ahead of her on the field when she’d risen and they’d finally started moving. Clearly, she had miscalculated somewhere and now it was going to take everything she had to come in well enough to continue the testing. The blue-eyed girl sped up, pulling away from her. What was she planning to do? Taliesimon tried to increase her pace to match, but her thighs burned already. Her knees and feet were beginning to ache, her lungs were on fire, and the roiling nausea in her belly was too much to ignore. Even pushing herself as hard as she could, she could not match the smaller girl’s pace. The path curved to the left and the boy disappeared around it, followed by Okara, who was rapidly gaining on the older boy. After a few moments, Taliesimon rounded the bend herself. Ahead, three boys leaped a chasm in the path almost in unison. The two on the outsides cleared it easily, but the boy in the center, the blond boy who’d been at her right hand in the line, stumbled on his jump and leaped much lower than the others. He fell just before the far edge, only just catching himself with his arms. He hung there a moment, still, as though in shock. Then he seemed to paw at the lip of the chasm. Over and over, his fingers dug into the dirt for purchase and came up empty. It was only a matter of time, she saw. Unless he found a stone or tree root or something else firm enough to hold his weight, he would fall. The boy who’d hurt her was almost to the edge of the pit and Okara was little more than a pace behind him. The slight tremble in the boy’s legs and the increased tightness in his arms made it clear to her that he feared the jump. Taliesimon scoffed silently. With that muscular body, he should have no difficulty in making the jump. Easy as spilt milk, as the saying went. The entire world seemed to slow, as though time itself had almost stopped. The boy’s foot landed at the edge of the chasm and he thrust up with all the strength of that powerful leg to make the leap. Impossibly, Okara’s left leg shot sideways in the instant before her own right leg touched down for her own jump. Her left foot struck the boy’s right and a resounding c***k accompanied the crumpling of the boy’s ankle. She moved upward in her leap across the chasm. Taliesimon’s eyes were locked on the boy as he fell almost straight down into the pit. His high, terrified shriek reverberated, as loud as it was short-lived. She couldn’t stop herself staring in shock at the spot from which he’d fallen. I would never have, she thought, dazed. This is important, but… what am I going to do? She’s a murderer. Taliesimon snapped her jaw closed and the world seemed to return to normal time. She glared straight forward, determined as never before to make the jump and overcome the course. Her last few steps before the chasm passed in a blur, her pulse thundering in her ears. She shortened her last three steps before the edge, to ensure her right foot landed at the very edge of the pit. She sucked in a deep breath and held it, then her foot touched down. She thrust up from her right foot with all her might. Her thigh, calf, and torso seemed a single muscle as all worked perfectly to send her sailing into the air. Taliesimon glanced down as she arced up and caught sight of the broken body, and a dozen more just like it, impaled by the stakes. Oh no, she thought. I’m not going to make it.CHAPTER FOUR IN A NARROW ravine near the summit of the Spine of the World Mountains, a small semi-permanent community stood as a testament to the hardiness of Graumdor’s people. They made their homes in the honeycomb of caves in the ravine walls, sleeping away the harsh daylight turns in the deep cavernous darkness. They were active only at night, under the soft orange glow of Aeryus, the world’s one moon. At the center of the community, a wide pit had been dug into the rocky soil to be used as a fighting arena. At the north end of the pit stood a towering structure of blackened teak known as the Editor’s Tower, from which the Editor of the pit battles kept watch over warriors and spectators alike. On this day each year, following a week a raucous festivities to honor the legion, new recruits fought to prove themselves worthy of full entrance into its ranks. When all was done, those who earned their places would be sorted into whichever entry positions their performance in those battles dictated. Two hulking men circled one-another in the pit, each wielding a fire-hardened spear of ash. The older of the two thrust forward with his weapon but the other dodged to the left. The older man came up with the butt of the spear, slamming it into the younger man’s jaw and blood spurted from the man’s mouth. Graumdor cringed. Did he truly want to do this? If he went through with it, that would be him out there, losing teeth and blood. For a competition that, in the scheme of things, really didn’t mean very much. There were other methods, though more difficult in some ways, of proving himself worthy of entering into military service, after all. And promotions could be earned after service began. Not to mention that, as Mother so often said, there were other ways to earn honor in the tribe apart from military service. “It isn’t too late to back out of this foolishness,” Mother said from his side, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. “Nonsense,” he replied immediately, surprised by his own conviction. “I am committed. This is my choice, Mother. And in any event, I could not suffer the dishonor of backing out now.” She sighed. He knew her feelings on the matter. The life of a warrior was not what she wanted for him. He had tried to walk the path she had chosen for him. He truly had. He didn’t have it in him to live such a boring life, however. He needed action. He needed excitement. But more than anything, he craved conquest and battle. Not that his puny arms were likely to lead him to that, but the musculature would come with training. Wouldn’t it? Out in the pit, the older man thrust a knee into the other’s face, spurting more blood, then spun and slammed the haft of his spear into the back of the younger man’s head. He fell to the dirt, and this time did not rise. “Victor!” cried the Editor as he entered the pit again, then moved forward to raise the arm of the winner. “Kraudish,” Graumdor growled. “He will be the one to defeat if I want top spot.” Mother turned to him in horror. “No,” she breathed. “You cannot be serious. Look at the size of him. He will destroy you.” He chuckled darkly. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mother.” She frowned. “Just trying to be realistic, Son. You should not seek this man out.” He shrugged. “It isn’t as though I have a choice in who I face. It is the Editor that decided who battles whom. That is his job, after all.” Mother sighed. “True enough. Let us hope he makes choices that keep you alive.” Graumdor shook his head in annoyance. Sometimes her lack of faith in his physical abilities was insulting. Though he was perfectly aware that he was not the shining example of a burly man whose physique guaranteed a successful military career, he had something none of these other warriors did. He had learned to use his mind. He had studied tactics and strategies that few, if any, of the military were even aware of. Those strategies were what would carry him through to victory. “Graumdor!” the Editor called. “You shall face Eklindiss. Both of you. Into the pit.” He turned and moved from the pit without waiting to see if the young men were coming to the pit. There was no need. No man of the tribe would be willing to lose face by not coming to the pit when called. No man was forced into military service, but once a tribesman committed to it, he could not dishonor himself by refusing to fight the battles. Shedding his cloak, Graumdor took the provided spear and moved toward the center of the pit. He was not familiar with Eklindiss, but assumed he would find out what sort of man he was being faced against in the first round. When the other man emerged from the crowd on the other side of the pit, Graumdor struggled to hold in his shock. The Editor couldn’t be serious. How was he supposed to defeat this man? Eklindiss was about his own height, but the man was built like an ogre. His arms were bigger around than Graumdor’s thighs, with a strongly muscled chest that was almost twice as wide as Graumdor’s. Gritting his teeth, he cleared his mind and closed his eyes. He needed to focus. He needed to center himself. Calm assessment and planning would see him through this. There was always a way, he only needed to find it. Opening his eyes, he watched the way the man moved, analyzing him. He moved slowly, though that was probably an affectation. He watched the man’s movements as he took hold of the proffered spear and twirled it in his hands. The big man was confident in his abilities and was skilled with the weapon, that much was clear. Okay, Graumdor thought. He has to have a weakness of some sort. There has to be a way to defeat him. I just need to find it. He stepped forward to the starting position and waited for the hulking man to stop across from him. Eklindiss flashed a wicked grin. “Quit now while you’re ahead, Scholar,” he twisted the final word as though it were a curse. “No one will think less of you. Just quit. Go back to what you’re good at and leave war to those who have the stomach for it.” Graumdor clenched his teeth in frustration. The warrior’s words came much too close to mirroring his thoughts for comfort. “Don’t worry,” he said with as much false bravado as he could muster. “I’ll try not to make your defeat too humiliating. It will be bad enough being defeated by me, of course, but I’ll make sure I don’t beat you too badly.” Eklindiss snarled in fury, but held his position. He turned to the Editor, the furious look in his eyes dimming a bit. The Editor nodded. “Begin!” he shouted. Eklindiss raised his spear and leaped toward Graumdor, a roar escaping his foam-flecked lips.CHAPTER FIVE DARGON FLEXED THE fingers of his right hand. “Incredible,” he breathed. Apart from the scab over the cut on his finger, it was as though nothing had happened yesterday. And try as he might, he could not push the image of the blue-glowing water from his mind. It was his duty— as a citizen of the Free States, as a Moritzan, and as a member of the royal family —to trust the word of the Trevan. Tradition said he was a conduit for their god, Trevandor, after all. In his heart though, he could not accept the priest’s answer. Even deep blue liquids such as deepwine— made from the dark indigo cave-dwelling thornberries —never glowed blue under the direct light of Kaustere. At best, it would produce a purple or violet glow. Surely the Trevan knows this, he thought as he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the wooden sword hanging from his belt. Shaking his head to banish the thoughts, he whipped the practice sword from its scabbard. As always, the hilt felt good in his hand. It felt right. Natural. “Is everything alright, my lord?” asked the warrior across the battle-floor from him. “I’m fine, Gerand. Please, begin.” The leather-clad man drew his own practice blade and the two squared off, mirroring one another’s movements. Dargon narrowed his eyes at the man and stepped toward him, wary of some trick. Gerand was no longer young, but he was still as skilled a warrior and as spry a man as Dargon had ever known. Gerand stepped to just beyond striking distance and saluted, holding the flat of his wooden blade up between his eyes. An instant later, the blade flashed down and he leaped forward. Dargon blocked the blow with his own blade, the loud c***k of wood rattling his ears. He moved smoothly into a low swing, but found his blade blocked. He swung high with a similar result. “Speed, my lord. You must move faster,” the old warrior said. Dargon nodded and swung with all the force he could muster. c***k. “No, Your Highness,” Gerand barked. “Not harder. Putting all your strength behind a blow makes it slower. Speed of movement will win a fight much more often than brute force. Light slashes and shallow cuts will eventually wear down an opponent, but brute force against his defenses is far more likely to exhaust you than him.” “Yes, ser.” “Again.” The drills continued for turns, as they had since he was old enough to hold a sword. King Duncan had established early on in Dargon’s life that he needed to be a warrior first and a ruler second. Although the dreaded torthugra hadn’t been seen in centuries, nor had any of their expeditions returned from Thugra Isle in even longer. Therefore, they had to be ever-vigilant. War was coming, his father assured him with irritating regularity. It had become almost a mantra. And when war did come, so Father said, they had to be ready. They couldn’t afford to be caught off their guard. Too many lives depended on them and their vigilance. When Gerand finally called a halt, even he was breathing heavy. Dargon could hardly lift his sword arm. The old warrior had landed at least three dozen strikes which would have been killing blows while Dargon had managed only one. Sheathing his blade, the old warrior walked away from the dirt battle floor and into the green grass of the training yard proper to the water barrels and proceeded to scoop out several ladles full which he dumped over his head. At last, when his hair and shirt were thoroughly soaked, he slurped a dozen ladles full into his mouth. Dargon followed his example, though with much less water going over his head. The chestnut curls were unruly enough without drenching them in tepid water. “You did well today, Lord Dargon. You continue to impress me with the rapidity with which you learn.” He smiled. It seemed genuine enough. “I did?” Dargon asked, uncertain. “I rarely land a blow against you.” “My lord,” Gerand said patiently. “Are you aware of how many years I’ve been training with the sword?” “Close to forty, isn’t it, ser?” “I began my sword training upon acceptance into the dragoons thirty-eight years ago.” “You were a dragoon?” Dargon asked, excited. Then felt foolish for asking. Of course. He had known that. That’s why he was still entitled to the honorific, ser. It was granted only to dragoons who reached a rank of leadership. The old swordsman sighed. “Yes I was. As you well know. But,” he held up a finger for silence. “To focus on relevance. How long have you been training with the sword?” “Well, I don’t know if you’d call the silly exercises when I was four training–“ “I would.” “Well, in that case then about eight years, I suppose.” “And how many of formal teaching?” Dargon considered. “About three or four, I think.” “So, between my vastly greater experience and being roughly twice your size and possibly thrice your weight, do you not think landing even one killing blow against me is rather impressive?” “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose so.” Gerand sighed. “You are a quick study, but don’t forget to keep practicing. The more you work at it, the greater skill you will achieve.” “Yes, ser.” “Now run along. Find something fun to do before your archery session with Jorimund.” Dargon nodded and spun on his heel to trot back to the keep. Although his destination was more than three dozen twists and turns and stairways into the keep, almost as though his great-grandfather had been trying to hide it in shame when he’d built the structure, Dargon knew the way by heart. He could have found the massive chamber blindfolded, he was certain. Dargon grinned from ear to ear as he came to the immense, diamondwood double doors. Engraved on their surface, spanning the gap between them, was the image of an open book with flames roaring out of its pages. A spitted serpent with feathered wings hung just above the flames, almost as though roasting on a spit above a cooking fire. He pushed one door open and waves of bone-numbing cold rolled over him. With a shiver, he grasped the torch from its wall sconce outside the door and stepped into the massive chamber, his elm-heeled boots echoing on the crimson-veined marble floor. Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he walked around the bookshelf-lined inner walls lighting every torch he passed, then moved down the aisles between the towering wooden shelves to light the lanterns throughout. His smile grew a little wider with each torch and lantern he lit. Perhaps it was a waste of valuable resources. Trevandor knew, lantern oil and pitch for the best torches weren’t cheap. He could not stand the gloom of a half-lit library, however. Finally, the room danced with as much firelight as any room ever did. With the gloom all-but gone and the bone-numbing chill at least somewhat abated, he went to the brick-enclosed hearth at the heart of the library. Kneeling, he wedged the torch between two loose stones in the hearth and set to work. He stacked several lengths of chopped wood into the center of the hearth, carefully arranging them in a cross-directional pattern and leaving a hollow on one side. When he was satisfied he had a stack that would burn for no more than two turns of the glass, he thrust the torch into the hollow and waited. Within moments, the dry wood caught and flames roared to life. Dargon straightened and placed the torch in one of the matching ivory sconces to either side of the hearth. Stepping back, he breathed in a deep breath and held it as he watched the orange flames dance above the firewood. After a moment, he released the breath and felt his tension melt away. This was his space. Somehow, he always felt safe here. Secure. Here in the library, it was as though nothing could touch him. Few people would even think to look for him here, and it was so out of the way that the chances of anyone coming here by accident was so close to nil as to be indistinguishable. Turning a slow circle, he took in the wonder of his sanctuary. When he had first discovered this place, he had expected its wonder to fade with time. Somehow, though, it never had. The wooden cases stretching away from the central hearth were as the spokes of a wheel coming out from a central hub. Each one stretched more than seventy spans before ending a dozen paces before the wall. Each stood more than twice his height and consisted of eight to twelve shelves, each covered with books. Some were bound in leather and others in wood or even cloth. Some were merely loose sheaves of parchment held together by strings of hemp. At the end of each of the two-dozen cases was an oaken bin filled with rolled scrolls. Most were housed in tubes of wood or stone or bone, but some were loose, held closed only by strips of leather, twine, string, or ribbon. Even after years of coming here, the sight took his breath away. As it always did. There were more books here— more stories, more history, more information —than existed anywhere else that he knew of, and easily more than he could ever hope to read if he lived four lifetimes. How can they shun this place? he wondered, not for the first time. Then a new thought occurred to him. But, if Gaureth shunned the library like everyone says, then why would he have built it in the first place? He froze. He attacked the thought from every angle he could imagine, but try as he might, he could not find a flaw in the thought. For the first time in his thirteen years, he was left seriously questioning the things he had always been taught as fact. There was no scenario he could come up with that made any sense in which Gaureth would have gone to the time, trouble, and expense to have the library built if it had not brought him either income, joy, goodwill, or knowledge. And on that note, if it had been shunned since its creation, then where in the Nine Hells had all the books come from? Why wasn’t it covered in layers of dust? And why were there torches in this part of the keep? It was yet another series of valid points that he couldn’t find a hole in. There was simply no situation he could imagine in which the library’s size, state, and truly, even its existence made sense if it was true that Gaureth had shunned books and learning. Dargon shook his head to clear the thoughts away. He didn’t come here to contemplate such serious matters, he came here to escape his own life and live someone else’s adventure for a while. He turned to the plush armchairs on the other side of the hearth and lifted a tallow candle from the table between them. Using the torch, he lit the candle and replaced it in its holder on the table. The book he had been reading for the past several fortnights, the collected tales of Veralon Scale-Breaker, remained in its place next to the porcelain candle holder. With a broad, excited grin, he picked up the massive book and plopped down into the plush chair. Pulling the red ribbon marking his place, Dargon continued where he’d left off and was immediately immersed into the adventures of the greatest dragoon to ever live. Dargon found himself in the shoes of the great hero, stepping into a tiny, unnamed city-state near the Verdant Forest after his latest victory over the invading hordes of torthugra. He needed a rest and hoped to find it in the tiny city. Town would be a more accurate word, Dargon thought as he gazed at the faded boards making up the facades of the homes and businesses. That evening, Dargon, through the eyes of Veralon, sat by the hearth in the town’s single inn with his feet up on a stool, letting the warmth of the fire melt his cares away. Any minute now, he thought, the peace is going to explode. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. He had realized early on that every story started this way, with the great hero trying to relax and get away from the conflicts that plagued his life. But it never lasted long. His peace always devolved to ever-greater conflicts. Dargon almost bounced with excitement as he waited for the new adventure to begin. Within minutes, his anticipation was rewarded in the form of a distraught mother bursting into the inn. Almost in hysterics, wailing about her missing daughter. It turned out that this girl was only the latest in a rash of young children disappearing. One every few days. The locals hadn’t put together that it was a connected problem until almost ten of the children had vanished. At first, the populace had suspected each other. But as it went on, they ran out of suspects. They turned their eyes to the feral gnelwyn of the forest, but were quickly informed by the local dragoons that no gnelwyn had been seen there in months. In the absence of other options, the populace started blaming the torthugra. The villagers in the inn turned to Veralon, who had already become quite famous, for help. But he informed them that the only known torthugra in the city-states were now far to the north, since he had led his dragoons to destroy the force which had been nearby, and there had been no survivors. The villagers were disheartened, but Veralon, honorable dragoon that he was, offered to help. He couldn’t just stand by while their children vanished. Naturally, this task was quite different from his usual quests and would require a very different method than he was used to. Battle against obvious enemies was the usual gamut of these stories. Dargon’s excitement grew as he followed the Scale-breaker through his investigation of the mystery. As the tension mounted, Dargon’s pulse quickened and his breathing grew shallow and rapid. The stakes grew with each page, as the taking of another child neared, and sweat broke out on his brow. Dargon glanced at the tallow candle. He’d already been reading for one and a half turns. He only had a half a turn left before he had to get on his way to archery with Jorimund. “Please,” he whispered as he read. “I have to get to the end before I have to go.” He made an effort to read faster, as fast as he could without missing details. Veralon followed a sequence of clues Dargon hadn’t even recognized as clues until Veralon pointed them out. Days passed as he followed clue after clue and Dargon had to wipe sweat from his brow. Finally, the clues led Veralon beyond the town to the Cliffs of Thorutia. He climbed down the cliff to a hidden cave and sneaked in, wearing nothing but his soft breeches and a long dagger, having decided stealth was more important than armor or a sword. The evidence had pointed to a single man being responsible for the whole sordid affair. The hero crept into the dimly lit cave, dagger in hand. A short way in, an ambient glow filled the tunnel with greenish light. Veralon turned a corner and crouched down to watch in horror as an ancient-looking human stepped through an aisle between rows of stone cages which held children ranging from two to eight years of age, every last one bruised and b****y. The man held up his arms and the stone bars shook, rattling with a deafening cacophony. The children cringed back away from the bars, almost in unison. Dargon grimaced and Veralon with him, in combined disgust and fury. Bastard! Dargon thought vehemently. The unknown man stepped to a stone altar where a boy of perhaps ten years lay calmly, free of both restraints and any sort of defiance. Dargon gritted his teeth as Veralon noticed the marks of brutal t*****e all over the boy’s body. The old man placed his hands on the boy’s chest and Veralon tensed as he prepared to act. He had no intention of letting this old man kill the boy. Without warning, the boy’s eyes bulged from his face and his back arched, his hand curling into fists. His mouth opened wide as though to scream, but no sound emerged. The boy’s flesh shriveled and wrinkled, as though from great age. His hair grew long, turned white, and fell from his head within a few short moments, while at the same time the old man seemed to grow younger. His back straightened, his flesh tightened, and the long hair of his face and head thickened and turned from the frosty white to deep, blue-tinged black. The now-young man grinned and casually batted away the blade Veralon swung at him. Dargon’s pulse thundered in his ears, his blood boiled. He read a detailed description of the young boy’s death, his flesh turning to dust and falling from his dry, brittle bones as the old sorcerer lost his beard and his face became as smooth as Dargon’s own. An image flashed before his eyes then of a boy he had played with when he was little. The boy was the son of a high Moritzan lord who had, less than a year ago, been convicted of being a sorcerer. After being found among the burned and bloodied corpses of his wife and children, along with other evidence Dargon hadn’t understood, the man had been put to death. Surprisingly, he hadn’t fought. He hadn’t argued his innocence. He hadn’t even tried to get away. He went to his death with a calm acceptance that Dargon still didn’t understand. The reminder was too much. He lost control of his tight rein on his emotions. His temper flared to rage and his vision turned crimson. He screamed, “This is why we don’t tolerate sorcerers!” before his vocalizations devolved into an inarticulate roar of fury. Leaping to his feet, the book tumbled from his lap, his hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled, and the open book before him burst into flames.CHAPTER SIX I’M GOING TO die, Taliesimon thought as she flew through the air above the chasm, though certainly much too low to make the jump. She felt as though she were hanging, frozen, over the sharp stakes at the bottom. Surely, in a jump like this a person shouldn’t have so much time to think. So much time to dwell on her failure, to recognize her jump was much too low to make it. In a near-panic, she arched her back and stretched out her right leg in front of her. She prayed to Trevandor to save her from her folly and let her survive this. Her foot struck the edge of the pit and her leg crumpled beneath her. Her left knee crunched into a hard stone a pace in from the lip of the chasm and she fell forward, her face striking the hard ground and bludgeoning her face for the third time today. Darkness began to encroach on the edges of her vision and she ground her teeth together, determined not to black out again. The sound of clapping next to her helped to keep her conscious. Driving her palms under her chest, she pushed up from the ground to stand, but fell hard onto her rump. Blood dripped down her chin, darkening her tunic. “You’re trying really hard to mess up that pretty face,” Okara laughed above her. Taliesimon grimaced. She supposed the other girl was right. And it was working. It being entirely unintentional didn’t change anything. With a grunt, she leaned forward and pushed her way to her feet. Her knee almost crumpled beneath her when she put weight on it, but the smaller girl caught her by the arm and steadied her. “You okay?” Taliesimon nodded. “I will be. Just have to walk it off.” Turning back to the chasm, she almost jumped. A hand gripped the hard ground at the lip of the pit. “Gods,” she whispered as she limped toward the edge of the pit, where she dropped to her belly, wincing against the pain her knee. She reached down and grasped the boy’s forearm with both her hands. The blond boy jerked his face up and stared, wide-eyed, into her eyes. “You’re… helping me?” he gasped. She smiled. “Am I that transparent?” Before he could respond, she turned her head and called, “Okara, help me.” The girl growled softly behind her. “Okara, come on,” her voice was pleading now. She gritted her teeth and wanted to kick herself for allowing such a weak sound to come from her mouth. “He’s one of them,” Okara growled. Sweat slicked Taliesimon’s palms and the boy’s arm started to slip from her grasp. “Okara,” she called, desperate now. “He didn’t hurt us. The older boys hurt him as much as they did us! He can help us, Okara!” This is hopeless, she thought. Does she just hate all boys? Why is she even here? Soft footsteps to her right surprised her, and she smiled when Okara crouched and reached her hands down to the boy. “Give me your other hand.” The boy offered a grim smile and swung his left hand up to Okara. She pulled him up almost a pace, then held steady. Still gripping the boy’s arm, Taliesimon struggled to her feet and adjusted her grip on the boy’s arm. Together, they pulled the boy up and over the edge of the pit. As his feet cleared it, Taliesimon fell backward in exhaustion, the boy lying on the ground half on top of her. Okara cleared her throat pointedly and the boy raised his head from Taliesimon’s shoulder. Flushing bright red, he rolled off of her onto his hands and knees. He panted for breath, which didn’t seem to come, regardless of how hard or rapid his breath. “What’s… your… name?” Taliesimon gasped between breaths. “Jonah,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “This is very sweet,” Okara said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “But if we want to have any chance of moving forward in the testing, we need to move. Now.” Taliesimon took a deep breath and nodded. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed her way to her feet. Jonah followed after her, his arms trembling with the strain. Okara turned away, but Taliesimon saw the disgust on her face. So he’s weak! she wanted to scream. So what! After how long he hung there, from that ledge, you would be too! Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d helped him sooner! She clasped the boy’s shoulder and gently pushed him forward. She limped forward herself, pushing her steps to a jog as often as she could handle the pain of it. She winced with the agony every time, but each time the pain in her knee lessened a bit more and her steps grew a bit more fluid. Unsurprisingly, Okara loped ahead with ease. Taliesimon clenched her teeth in frustration and tried to focus her mind. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t recall which part of the course came next. She still had the various obstacles in her mind, at least she thought she did, but couldn’t recall the order they came in. “Jonah,” she gasped. He nodded, but kept silent. “Do you… remember which… which part of… of the course… comes next?” He shook his head, and she clenched her jaw tighter. What is wrong with these kids? Did they think they’d just come in and figure it out as they went? By the time they turned the next curve in the path, Taliesimon’s knee had stopped hurting and she was almost back to her normal pace. Okara stopped moving and her sandals skidded to a stop in the dirt path. Taliesimon slowed and stopped next to the smaller girl, Jonah doing likewise beside her. She stared at the shocked, wide-eyed look on the girl’s face for a moment before she turned to look at what had caught the bald girl’s attention and felt her own jaw fall open. “Oh, gods. How could I have forgotten this?” The other two nodded vaguely, as though they barely heard her. She gazed out over the field before them and only just repressed a shudder. For hundreds of spans ahead was a huge mud pit, but it didn’t look right. The mud was too dark. If it wasn’t black, it was near enough as made no matter. How did the mud get so dark? Around the edge of the pit was a row of thick logs sharpened to points and angled toward the inside of the mud pit. At several points throughout the huge pit, the mud roiled and steamed, but everywhere else it was smooth and still. At its center stood an oak tower with smooth legs sticking down into the mud, which roiled more violently under the tower than anywhere else. A number of braided vine ropes were tied to the other side of the tower and stretched up to the trees several hundred spans above. What their purpose was, she could only guess. She saw no way to get to the tower aside from walking through the mud, as the boys were doing. The black mud coated several of their bare backs like nothing she’d ever seen. It glistened wetly in the crimson light of Kaustere, as though it had no intention of drying. “Maybe we can go around?” Jonah asked. Taliesimon shook her head. “It would take too long. And besides, they want us to ride out on those vine ropes.” Okara narrowed her eyes and looked up at Taliesimon. “How do you know that?” She sighed. I’m not a fool! she wanted to yell at the younger girl. Aloud, however, she said, “I studied the Gauntlet before it started. I’ve been planning for this for months. They have put this together specifically so we have to find a way to the top of the tower and ride the vine ropes to the next section of the Gauntlet.” Okara lowered her eyes, her lips turned down in a frown. “Are we even big enough to push through that mud?” Jonah asked. “Look how deep they are in it. That would probably come up to my chest, and Okara’s chin.” He shivered. Taliesimon nodded. “I’m open to suggestions.” Okara stepped over to the stakes at the nearest edge of the pit. She rubbed her palm across her mouth several times, as though in thought. She ran her other hand over her bare scalp, leaving it to rest on the back of her neck for a moment. Taliesimon looked to Jonah, who shrugged, looking helpless. She turned back to Okara. What was she thinking? Okara reached out to grasp the stake, the span of both her hands scarcely covering half its diameter, and pulled on it. It didn’t budge. She tried again, but with no more success. A third try, but still nothing. “Help me,” she said through clenched teeth. Taliesimon shrugged as she glanced back to Jonah. He nodded. They moved around to either side of Okara and gripped the stake above and below Okara’s hands. “Ready?” she asked. Taliesimon nodded, and Jonah did likewise. Okara nodded in turn. “One, two three!” and the three pulled together, each grunting with the effort. Slowly, excruciatingly, the stake began moving up, out of the ground. Taliesimon tried not to smile, but she couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her lips. The farther the stake moved, the easier it became to pull. After almost a minute, they pulled the log all the way out of the mud and the solid earth beneath it. The suddenness caused the stake to flip toward them and all three stumbled back and fell. Taliesimon’s backside struck the earth with a numbing thud. Okara held the stake tight to her chest, hugging it. Taliesimon giggled madly at the sight as the sticky, black mud clung to the girl’s bare chest and leather breeches. After a moment, Jonah sat up, looking confused. Then he glanced from Okara to Taliesimon and joined her helpless giggling. Looking down at herself, Okara joined them as well. “What are you doing?” asked a deep voice to Taliesimon’s right. She froze. The silence was palpable. Slowly, she sat up and looked toward the voice. There stood a dragoon clad in a diamondwood chest plate who carried a spear tipped in shiny black bone. Okara cleared her throat. “I’m going to use the stakes to speed through the mud. Unless, of course, that is somehow against the rules?” For a bare instant, the dragoon’s eyes widened. His lips remained a thin, grim line. “You are welcome to try. But,” he gestured to the boys who’d reached the legs of the tower in the center of the mud pit. “I’d suggest you hurry if you want to proceed.” Taliesimon nodded, and found her companions nodding with her. The dragoon withdrew, disappearing behind the foliage next to the pit, and she turned to face her companions. Their gazes were locked on her, Jonah expectantly and Okara with wide, hopeful eyes. “So what’s the plan?” Taliesimon asked. “Let’s get one more stake, then we’ll see if this is going to work.” Taliesimon sighed. She didn’t like not knowing what the younger girl had in mind, but since she didn’t have a plan of her own, she stood and followed, repeating the process with the other two, pulling a second stake from the ground. Having already learned the process, the second one came much easier. “Now what?” Instead of answering, Okara stood with a stake in hand and stepped to the edge of the pit. Raising the stake in both hands, she plunged it straight down into the mud. It stabbed in deep. Okara let go and turned back to grin at Taliesimon. The stake held but a moment, then tilted to one side as it began to fall. “Okara!” she snapped, pointing at the falling stake. The smaller girl jerked her head around and snaked her hand out, only just snatching the stake before it was lost in the mud. “Well, so much for that idea,” Okara said, despondent. “Let me try,” Jonah said. Taliesimon nodded. “Me too,” though she still couldn’t see what the other girl intended. Okara eyed her askance, then shrugged and sat down. She stared at her knees with narrowed eyes. Taliesimon and Jonah each took a stake and stepped to the edge. She let Jonah go first. He thrust down with all his might. Without waiting to see if his stuck, she lifted her own stake, took a deep breath, and slammed down with all her strength. She released her stake and it leaned a moment before Jonah’s did. “Tevandor’s axe!” Okara swore. “Other ideas?” Taliesimon asked, forcing the despair from her voice. Jonah pawed at the ground with a sandaled foot. “I think… maybe I might have one.” Taliesimon wished he didn’t sound so meek. What hope did his idea have if even he didn’t think it was good? But she nodded. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.” “I’m sure it’ll be better than mine,” Okara muttered. Jonah shrugged. “Well…” he trailed off before he’d even begun. “Come one, Jonah,” Taliesimon said. “Any idea is better than nothing, and we’re running out of time.” “Okay,” he said with a tentative smile. “Well, even diamondwood floats, doesn’t it?” Taliesimon thought for a moment. “I… think so. I think I remember hearing Father talk about it once. About river rafts made of it. Maybe.” Okara nodded, her face uncertain, though she kept silent. “What do you have in mind?” The boy stood a little straighter. “Well, assuming they do float, we could lash three or four stakes together and ride them across. Like a raft, as Taliesimon says. It’s the simplest water craft that might work here, I think.” He lowered his eyes to his feet. Taliesimon considered, looking for any problems with the plan. Okara stood. “What will we lash them together with?” Jonah’s slight smile faltered. “Oh. I didn’t think about that.” “Our shirts,” Taliesimon blurted without thinking. The other two turned to look at her, eyes wide and mouths agape. “What? Will it work?” Okara’s face lit up. “You. Are. Brilliant!” Taliesimon allowed herself a congratulatory smile. Jonah pulled his shirt off immediately and started tearing it into strips for maximum length. “Come on,” Okara said. “We need at least two more stakes, maybe three.” “Right,” Jonah said. “We’ll need a pole.” With a smile, Taliesimon went to the edge with her friends to work on the additional stakes. When they finally pulled the fifth stake out of the ground, Taliesimon collapsed into the dry dirt near the edge and stared out into the pit. The last of the boys in the mud were just reaching the stilted legs of the tower. A larger boy pushed a smaller boy into the violently roiling mud between the tower’s legs and the victim shrieked. He leaped up from beneath the mud, his flesh crimson. His shriek ripped at Taliesimon’s heart, her soul wailed with the boy, and her eyes filled with tears. “You okay?” Jonah asked from above her, somehow still standing. “It just disgusts me. I understand hurting others in the competition. I understand violence.” The boy shrieked again, louder than before. “But that was just s******c. There was no reason for him to do that! Cruel bastards.” Okara sat up and shrugged. Clearly nothing about this bothered her. Jonah nodded. “I understand, but this is the world we live in, Taliesimon.” She grimaced. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” With a shake of her head, Okara leaped to her feet and rolled the stakes next to each other. That done, she collected the strips of Jonah’s shirt and started lashing the stakes together with them. She yanked on the strips as she tied the knots, color rising to her cheeks. Jonah turned from Taliesimon and knelt at the end of the stakes opposite Okara. “We need your shirt, Tal.” “Oh.” I didn’t think mine would actually be necessary, she thought. Hmm. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. “Um, are you certain you truly need–” “Taly!” Okara snapped. “There’s nothing else we can use. Unless you’d rather lose your breeches. I sure don’t. Come on, we’re both shirtless. Stop being such a grauk and take off your damned shirt so we can get to that tower!” Taliesimon gritted her teeth and nodded. A grauk, am I! she thought vehemently. At least I have the decency not to show off as much skin as the boys from the very start of the Gauntlet! Pushing her reservations to the back of her mind, she pulled the wool tunic over her head. A rush of blood warmed her neck and face and she imagined her flesh must now be the color of ripe strawberries. She struggled against her instinct to cover her almost-flat chest with her hands as she tossed the garment down to Jonah. She winced as he tore it into strips and began lashing the stakes together. When the knot work was finished, Taliesimon helped her companions push their makeshift raft into the black mud, with she and Jonah each carrying an additional stake to push the raft across the surface with. The raft slid into the thick stuff without resistance. Jonah stepped onto it and plunged his stake into the mud. The raft seemed stable, He tested pushing and pulling the stake and the raft obediently moved forward and back, if a bit slower that Taliesimon would have liked. Okara leaped the short stretch of mud and landed, cat-like, with bent knees in the center of the raft. The craft drifted a few spans out with her momentum, but was otherwise unaffected. Taliesimon took a deep breath, stepped back a few steps, and ran toward the pit. At its edge, she leaped toward the raft. Oh, no, she thought. It’s still drifting! After a small eternity, she landed at the left edge of the raft with her feet only half on its surface. The raft dipped toward her with the added weight and one foot slipped off the raft. Her arms pinwheeled as she tried to maintain her balance, but she leaned farther and farther out over the edge of the raft. She shrieked as the bubbling mud came up to meet her. The screaming face of the boy who had been pushed in below the tower to boil alive flashed through her mind and she prayed it ended quickly. She slammed her eyes closed to wait for the end. But that agonizing end didn’t come. She hung, suspended. The heat of the roiling mud warmed her face and she became aware of the pressure on her right hand, an insistent squeeze. Am I already dead? she wondered. “Come on, Taly, you are killing me here,” Jonah grunted. Taliesimon snapped her eyes open and found the roiling black mud little more than a hand-width from her face. She turned to her right in a daze. Jonah had a hold of her right hand and Okara gripped him around the waist, anchoring them all onto the raft. “A little help here,” Okara growled. Taliesimon blinked and finally comprehended what had happened. Glancing down, she realized her feet were balanced around the curve of the stake at the end of the raft. With a mental cringe, she turned her body as much as she dared and reached up to grasp Jonah’s hand with her other hand as well, then pulled with all her strength. With their combined effort, the three finally pulled her up onto the raft and all three fell to their knees, panting with exhaustion. “What in the Nine Hells was that?” Okara spat, furious. “Sorry,” Taliesimon panted. “I thought. I was dead.” Okara rolled her eyes and turned toward the front of the raft. “Let’s go.” Taliesimon nodded and climbed to her feet. She reached down for her stake before she realized there was a problem. “Oh, torthugra fangs!” Turning, she found Jonah with his stake in the mud, pushing the raft toward the center. More than a dozen boys were there now, struggling to climb up the tower legs. They tried to jump up, out of the mud, to grasp the legs, but slipped down. One boy gripped the leg with his feet and struggled to pull himself up. He did well, pulling himself upward until just after his feet cleared the mud and he slipped back down to the laughter of his peers. “Are the legs greased?” Jonah asked. “So it would seem,” Okara said grimly. Taliesimon nodded again and said distantly, “I’ll take over the paddling whenever you want, Jonah.” Okara scoffed. “Why?” Her voice was bitter and deprecating. “So you can lose the other one too? We’ve wasted enough time already.” Taliesimon’s mouth fell open. But… but I didn’t… Even her thought faded as her vision clouded with tears. She wiped at them angrily. Jonah smiled at her, sympathy in his eyes, and nodded toward the tower. “I’m a lot more worried about how we’re going to deal with that.”CHAPTER SEVEN IN THE CENTER of a leagues-long tunnel beneath thousands of spans of solid stone was no place for an elf. “Half-elf,” Rintalas growled, annoyed at himself for thinking of the very slur too many of his fellows used to get a rise out of him. Of course, for a half-elf with his background, it was almost the perfect place to be. The crimson light of Kaustere was the last thing he wanted to see. He would take this pitch darkness over that hated light any day. Especially since he was not nearly so blind here in the deep tunnel as many of his compatriots would have been. His elven blood gave him a distinct advantage. He looked about the wide tunnel, his night vision turning the cold stone surfaces into almost infinitesimal shades of gray. Occasionally he would see something living, something with the heat of life, which would appear in shades of blue, red, or purple, depending on how much natural heat the living body generated. He still found it odd— even now, after more than a century of life —how the night vision worked. Was it magical in nature? Something passed down from the ancient elves back in the elder days when sorcery supposedly hadn’t stolen the very life essence of its users? Was it some quirk of nature? Had there been a time that the elves, like the dwarves, had reason to see well in darkness? Was it something that developed on account of their environment at some point in the distant past? With a shrug, he accepted he wasn’t likely to ever learn the answers to those questions. Especially since the last thing he wanted to do was have an actual conversation with an elf. He would much rather kill them than speak with them. A sound reached his ears, something soft and echoing that he couldn’t decipher over his own bootsteps. He froze and waited, simultaneously hoping to hear it again and not to hear it again. He held his breath, hoping it would allow him to decipher the sound more clearly. Nothing came. Had he imagined it? He didn’t think so, his imagination had never been that active before. Especially not here in this deep, isolated tunnel that had no reason to support anything living. Again, the sound came, and his blood ran like ice. The low clicking reminded him of a child’s rattle, but that the repetitions were irregular and sounded more like bone against bone than stone against wood. What could possibly be down here making such a sound? He strained his eyes looking down the tunnel, the sound coming from straight ahead. But how far? He couldn’t be certain. For all he knew, the sound could be originating far beyond his exit from the tunnel. With the acoustic quality of the tunnel, it was too difficult to tell how far away the sound could be coming from. It could be two dozen spans or two hundred leagues. He had no idea how to tell just how far the sound could be echoing from. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he moved on down the tunnel. With no better option at hand, he determined to force himself to stay alert and keep his eyes open for anything ahead, resigning himself to watching for movement and life for the rest of the journey.CHAPTER EIGHT DARGON’S RAGE COOLED in an instant, and he stared at the raging flames in shock. Above the flames, a glittering image appeared of a winged serpent the color of lustrous, shining gold. Its crimson eyes glared at him. “By holy Trevandor,” he whispered in horrified awe. The natural-looking flames flared up and turned bright red, then dimmed down to cobalt blue as it engulfed the metallic serpent which grinned at him, showing its long, sword-shaped teeth of pearlescent-white. Then the flames flared even higher and burned pure white. In an instant, the serpent vanished and the flames died. All that remained of the book was a pile of white ash in a roughly rectangular shape. “No!” he wailed, tears filling his eyes. Several thoughts came to him then in rapid succession, so fast it made his head spin. First, the tales of Veralon! Dammit! Now I’ll never find out how the story ends! Then, how am I going to explain this? That book was older than grandfather! Then, Wait, no one comes down here. I don’t have to explain anything to anyone. And finally, but while we’re on the subject, just what in the name of all the gods just happened? How did that fire start in the first place? “Sparks,” he said, seizing on an idea. “Father always says not to stand too close to a fire because the sparks can fly and light clothing on fire. If that can happen to a tunic, then surely a book is equally susceptible. Of course. That must be it.” And what about the serpent? asked a small, insistent voice in the back of his mind. “My imagination. Brought on by the image carved into the library doors.” And the leaping blue flames, followed by white? Have you ever seen flames that hot before? And how does fire go white, exactly? “Look,” he said, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know. Maybe I imagined that, too. I didn’t even feel the heat of the flames, after all!” If you didn’t feel the heat, why is the book ash now? Dargon growled. “Of course. This is me, sitting here arguing with myself because I can’t explain what in the Nine Hells I just saw.” Not true, the annoying voice came again. You have an explanation that makes perfect sense. You just don’t want to think about that. Dargon huffed an angry sigh. “No. Just no. I’m not a bad person. The gods would not curse me so. No. I refuse to accept that. It can’t be.” Fine. Bury your head in the sand. Dargon growled again, but otherwise ignored the thoughts. It didn’t happen often, but this was one of those times that made him wonder if there was another personality in his head. How can a person argue with themselves as strongly as he did? He couldn’t understand it. Standing, he took the stone-handled hand broom from the mantle above the hearth and its matching ash pan and stooped to clean up the remains of the book. “Dammit,” he said again as he dumped the ashes into the hearth. Replacing the tools on the mantle, Dargon rested his arms on the mantle and rested his forehead on his arms. It seemed a long time passed while he stood over the hearth, alternating between watching the dancing flames and squeezing his eyes closed against the surrealism of the day. Strange images danced in the flames, whether his eyes were open or closed didn’t seem to matter, he saw them regardless. Images of armies at war, of numerous races, some mythical and some real, uniting against… what? The creatures were strange, in many ways they resembled the torthugra. They were more or less serpentine, with long necks and tails and narrow, scaled bodies. But these also had four legs each and most of their heads were horned. And there seemed to be numerous types of them. Of different colors and shapes. What are these things? he wondered. He blinked rapidly for several moments, then closed his eyes and saw a battle between three of the creatures and an army of odd creatures that seemed almost human, but not quite. Almost like the mythical races of elves and dwarves, perhaps. The strange creatures were immense though, easily hundreds of times the size of the human-like creatures. “What?” he whispered. Such strange creatures, working together in battle. Even according to the myths, that never happened. But what were those things, anyway? Everyone knew elves and dwarves weren’t real. But what were those strange winged creatures? He felt certain he’d never seen anything like them, the closest thing he knew of were the torthugra, and calling them similar was akin to saying trolls were similar to gnelwyn. Technically there were similarities, but they were so different they could have been from different worlds. Opening his eyes, Dargon turned from the hearth to leave the library. He crossed the chamber in a daze. Surely it was all his imagination. But if it was, where had his mind conjured the strange serpents from? Had he seen or heard of something like them before but didn’t remember it? Raising a hand to the door, he froze. The torches, he thought, and turned back to face the library. The room darkened around him and dozens of bright sparks flew into his hand from all directions. They burst into bright azure flames around his hand that died almost instantly. “I am not a sorcerer!” he screamed vehemently as he wondered if he had completely lost his mind.CHAPTER NINE THE RAFT WAS ten spans from the tower when the first of the boys struggling to get up the tower legs noticed Taliesimon and the others. Dark looks, narrowed eyes, and grimaces greeted her on every face. “Any ideas?” she asked as she pushed the stake, turning the raft to angle around to the other side of the tower. Jonah licked his lips. “Perhaps the raft will give us the reach to jump above the grease, assuming the legs are, in fact, greased.” “Perhaps,” Okara said, sounding dubious. “It’s worth a try,” Taliesimon said. As the raft drifted by, a tall, hairless boy reached up to grab the raft as though he meant to climb up, a vicious snarl on his red face. “No,” Taliesimon shouted and Jonah dropped to his knees, smashing them into the boy’s hand as he bashed his fist into the boy’s face. The boy fell back, limp. Jonah stood, releasing the boy’s hand. The inert form floated in the mud behind the raft. Taliesimon blinked. “I hope he doesn’t drown.” Okara scoffed. “Taliesimon,” Jonah said harshly. “You do realize he would have killed us given the chance, don’t you? For someone who seems to understand better than the rest of us what we were getting into, you’re awfully naïve about what these others will do to you in the name of placing in the Gauntlet.” She flushed, her cheeks and neck growing hot. “I understand the Gauntlet. I understand using violence to secure your spot. I understand being willing to do almost anything for a chance at becoming a dragoon. But killing each other seems extreme.” She plunged the stake into the mud to stop them under a strut between two tower legs. “Other humans are not the enemy. The torthugra are the enemy. Why would they kill to become dragoons?” Jonah looked up, eying the strut critically. “Taly, you have a good heart. I admire that, I really do. But these others here don’t see this the way you do. They don’t care about anyone else here. Especially not the three of us. They’ll do anything to the three of us to get ahead.